Cannot Be Spoken
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Following on from Episode 6, Dr. Turner tries to find a way to tell Sister Bernadette how he feels, and needs Sister Julienne's help.
1. Chapter 1

**I wrote this quite quickly this evening because I haven't been able to get the last episode out of my head and I thought this might help. I really hope you like it. There can be more if you want it. **

He got back in the car, and sat still for a very long time; staring out at the pouring drizzle washing down upon the windscreen. The triple treatment _can _be miraculous, he kept telling himself, he had told no lie on that score. But how was he to bear it if he lost her? How? How could he lose something he had never really had? But even parting from her outside the clean face of the sanatorium felt like a loss, a physical loss, the loss of a limb.

In a sudden flurry of movement, he picked up his briefcase from the back seat, rummaging through it until he found a sheet of writing paper and a medical journal to rest on. Bringing his fountain pen out of his breast pocket, he unscrewed the lid, and paused, poised to begin writing. He took a deep breath. And then, carefully, in intense bursts separated by long reflections, considerations, he began to write.

…**...**

"Sister, I want to ask a favour of you," he told her.

The elder nun smiled kindly at him from across her desk.

"We are in your debt, Dr. Turner," Sister Julienne told him kindly, "After all the help you have given Sister Bernadette at this difficult time. The whole of Nonnatus House is very grateful to you."

"It concerns Sister Bernadette, actually," he told her, then broke off, considering, "I'm afraid you may find me rather odd."

"Try me, Dr. Turner," she challenged him lightly, "I may surprise you."

He gave her a small smile, appreciating her willingness to hear him out.

"I would like you to give her this letter," he told her, producing the envelope from the breast pocket of his jacket, where it had stayed with his pen ever since he had written it and placing it on the desk before her, "But only if things take a definite turn for the worse."

Sister Julienne paused, looking carefully at its corner.

"You only want me to give it to her if she's dying?" she clarified.

"Yes," he replied, grateful for her bluntness and clarity.

"Am I entitled to know what it says?" she asked him levelly.

He looked at her closely, decided that she was being sincere, and reasonable, and that she only asked wit her Sister's best interests at heart.

"I would rather that you only did if you do have to give it to her," he replied.

She was silent for a moment, and he wondered for a moment if he had been unreasonable in his conditions.

"You should know, Doctor, that I have formed my own ideas on the content of that letter from what you have told me alone," she looked at him full in his eyes, taking him very much by surprise, watching him candidly, with sincerity, with feint scrutiny. It was a most communicative look, and in that moment, he knew that she had him worked out. She'd probably had him worked out ever since the torturous moments when he examined Sister Bernadette, when he tried, with shaking hands, to examine her so carefully, to look after her.

Sister Julienne still held his eyes.

"Am I right?" she asked him gently.

He nodded haltingly.

"Yes, Sister, I think you probably are."

"Very well," she replied in a plain, almost business-like tone, and put the letter in the drawer of her desk.

…**...**

She put the receiver down, her hand quivering a little.

She would have to book a taxi cab to the Sanatorium. There was no way she could ask Dr. Turner to drive her; probably he would be busy and that was the very mildest reason. She had the feeling, if he knew that Sister Bernadette was in danger she would not be able to keep him away, and that might be altogether worse for everyone. And she still had his letter. The letter!

Sitting back down- she had stood up, without realising it, in nervous distress- and opened the drawer of her desk. The envelope was not properly sealed, and gently she slipped it open with her thumb, unfolding the single sheet of writing paper.

By the time she had finished reading it, her feelings had got the better of her, and she was in tears. Poor child. Poor man. And she, herself, she could not bear to think of losing that sweet girl, such a kind heart, the bravest and best soul that-...

She clasped her hand to her mouth for a few seconds. Her tears needed to stop, and presently they did. She took a deep breath. She needed a taxicab, she needed to get to Sister Bernadette, who, though she called her Sister, and respected her as an equal was far more like a daughter than anything she had ever, would ever, know.

Picking up the receiver again, with great purpose she dialled the number of the taxi firm.

Her taxi booked she picked up the letter and carefully, as if it were made of the most delicate gold, put it back into it's envelope.

She stood up, and was about to leave. She went to pick up the letter again, but found her pen in her hand instead. For a moment, she looked carefully at the words "Sister Bernadette" standing out boldly on the white space. She sat back down, and wrote just beneath the name, her own pen shaking a little:

"Words stay with us when people cannot. I didn't want you to be alone. Sister Julienne."

Then added,

"With my best love."

…**...**

My dear, Sister.

It is said that there are times when love cannot be spoken, only shown. Which am I doing, as I write these words to you? I could never bring myself to say them aloud because I thought you would not want to hear them, but worse than that thought is the thought of you leaving, for good, and never having told you. I know that for many reasons you could not return my feelings and I bear no resentment for this whatever. I showed you all I have to show in one kiss of your hand, and every soft word, smile, every moment of happiness between us, and every kind thing I did in order to try so desperately to deserve the privilege of loving you. Sister, know that in this life you were loved best of all people, by your colleagues and friends at Nonnatus House, by the patients you tended so competently and by me. I know that my love may be poor consolation to you- I could never, for a moment, be worthy of loving you- but I have loved you so strongly, and it was of great help to me to love someone as good as you. I know you will never be alone, your God will make sure of that, but I could stand the thought of you going without any kind human words.

I am ever yours.

[a few lines left, then, in a shaky hand]

Goodbye, my love.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for your reviews. I'm sorry if any science/medical facts in this aren't exact; my only sources of information were internet-based and a little dubious. **

The telephone on his office desk rang in its brisk tone as he sat going over patient files with his second cup of tea of the afternoon. So far it had been an obligingly quiet afternoon, but now he fully expected that some crisis was calling him and that would sharply change. He scooped the receiver up and put it to his ear.

"Dr. Turner here."

"Hello, Doctor. This is Sister Julienne."

"Yes, Sister, I recognised your voice."

"I'm speaking from the Sanatorium."

That quickly snapped whatever lightness or flippancy had been in his voice well out of it. He felt a forceful chill run down the back of his neck to his spine.

"What is it?" he asked, not caring that panic was clear in his voice, Sister Julienne probably knew exactly how he felt by now, if she had read his-... oh, God. "What has happened?"

"I'm afraid I have something to tell you, and I don't quite know how you will take it, Doctor," she told him, her voice gentle.

He was deathly silent, unable to say anything.

"Oh, Doctor," she told him, as if able to read what he must be thinking from the severity of his silence, "It's not that!" her tone had lightened considerably, "Sister Bernadette is fine, or at any rate much better than she was, that's to say I think she's on the mend in earnest now."

"Then what is it you have to tell me?" he asked her, aware now that for the past few moments his blood had been pounding intensely and now it was both quickening and lightening, speeding away in giddy relief.

"A short while ago, Sister Bernadette's condition worsened dramatically," she told him calmly, "Her fever became much worse and she was having difficulty breathing. The doctor increased her dosage of antibiotics, but after a few days they had had no great effect, so they sent for me. I have been here for the best part of twenty-four hours," she told him, and for the first time he realised how tired she sounded, just beyond the pleasant tone she was maintaining for his benefit, "I must telephone Nonnatus House in a moment," she added, reminding herself, "To tell them the good news. About eight hours after my arrival, the doctor was successful in breaking Sister Bernadette's fever, and she has shown signs of marked improvement ever since. She has been sleeping for most of the time since, and I haven't had the chance to speak to her. But as far as I can gather the all of the signs are positive."

He was quiet, taking this news in. It was certainly the best thing he had heard in many months; only one thing did not quite make sense.

"Why on earth would you wonder how I would take this news, Sister?" he asked her, "It's the best I've heard in a very long time. It's wonderful!"

"Yes," she agreed, "It is. But you haven't heard the next part yet. When they telephoned me, telling me about Sister Bernadette's condition, I was very worried. I feared the worst, Doctor, and it seems that I was right."

"Did they let you see her?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied, "They let me see her almost at her worst because they too were quite convinced that she did not have long. They treat me as if I were her next of kin, her mother, and let me go to her." He heard her take a deep breath, "Before I left Nonnatus House I took out your letter and read it, as you had told me I may." There was a short pause, "It was a beautiful letter, Dr. Turner."

He was quiet; he could not think of what to say.

"Doctor," she began again, sounding uneasy, "I am afraid that you may feel that I have not complied with your wishes. I know you only intended Sister Bernadette to read the contents of that letter if she-... if she was no longer to be among us. Well, she has not read it exactly," her voice was the very embodiment of awkwardness, "But I am afraid she has heard it; I read its contents aloud to her."

Still, he was silent.

"She was too weak to read it herself. I'm afraid it made me cry," she admitted a little shyly, "To hear the words out loud."

"And they think she will make a recovery?" he questioned her.

"Yes," she told him, "The doctor sees no reason why now she will not make a full and fairly quick recovery."

"Then I cannot be sorry," he told her, simply, "As long as she's alright."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Sister Julienne told him, "I feel almost as if I have breached your confidence. But you must believe that at the time I thought her life was in great danger."

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Sister," he assured her, "It is enough that she will be well."

"I think," she told him hesitantly, after a few moments, "I think it gave her some comfort to hear the words. I cannot tell if she will remember them now, but at the time they seemed to ease her of her pain."

"Where is the letter now?" he asked.

"I left it with her," she told him, "I had to leave soon afterwards while she was still in danger, and I did not want her to be alone. Would I do right to retrieve it if I can?"

He hesitated, considering.

"No," he replied, "Leave it with her. Its hers now. Thank you for telephoning, Sister."

"You are must welcome, Doctor. I am sorry, but I think I must ring Sister Evangelina now."

…**...**

When she was allowed into the room, she found Sister Bernadette propped slightly up in bed. The bedsheets had been changed and she was wearing a clean nightdress. Her face bore the signs of her ordeal, and was a good deal thinner than it had been when she had left Nonnatus House. But she looked encouragingly cheerful under her glasses and cap, and smiled at Sister Julienne as she was shown in.

"How are you, my dear?" she asked, settling herself into the chair at the bedside, where she had sat a few hours ago, feeling so very differently.

She scanned the bedside cabinet for any sign of the letter, but it was not there.

"I feel better, thank you, Sister," she replied.

"I'm afraid you gave me quite a scare?" Sister Julienne told her kindly.

"I'm sorry," Bernadette replied, "Have you been here all of this time?"

"I was very kindly offered a room to take a rest in," Sister Julienne replied, "It would have been wrong of me to leave while you in such a condition. But all is well now," she continued, considerably more brightly, "Or soon will be."

"Yes," Bernadette replied, "Praise be to God."

"Indeed," Sister Julienne replied, "Amen."

"Won't they be worried about you at Nonnatus House?" Bernadette asked after a moment of quiet.

"I have telephoned them," she replied, "Jenny answered the telephone. They were all delighted to hear that you were on the mend. I heard Trixie cheering in the background."

"I can't wait to go home," Bernadette confessed.

"Patience, child," Sister Julienne warned her, "You have a while yet."

"I know," Bernadette replied, "And I will try to be."

They were both quiet for another moment.

"I talked to Dr. Turner on the telephone earlier," Sister Julienne began in a tone of some caution, "He was delighted to hear that you were out of danger."

Bernadette said nothing for a few seconds.

"That was kind of him," she observed sincerely.

"Child," Sister Julienne asked plainly, then, knowing that she had to, "Do you remember anything of what transpired in this room while you were at your worst?"

"You were here," Bernadette told her, "And then you went away."

"Yes, that's right, I was," Sister Julienne agreed, "But do you remember the letter?"

"I didn't remember it," Bernadette replied, "But when I woke up I found it where you left it."

"Have you read it?" Sister Julienne asked, after a beat.

"It had my name on," Bernadette asserted a little defensively.

"I know that, Sister, and you had every right to read what it said. Where is it now?" she asked curiously.

Sitting up cautiously, as little as she could and still be able to move, Sister Bernadette turned gently and fished the familiar envelope out from under her pillow.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	3. Chapter 3

For a few moments, they both sat, looking intently at the envelope held by its corners between her fingertips.

"It was a beautiful letter," Sister Julienne remarked gently, bowing her head a little, trying to catch a closer look at Bernadette's face, which was still fixed on what she had on her hand, partly concentrating on it and partly avoiding Sister Julienne's eyes, "Don't you think so?" she asked, with a slight sense of caution.

"Yes," Bernadette agreed so softly that she could barely be heard, "Yes, it was."

Sister Julienne was quiet for a moment, apparently weighing up her best way forward.

"I won't ask you exactly what has transpired between yourself and Dr. Turner," she declared firmly, "Though that does not mean you cannot tell me if you should want to. I seem to remember the mention of a kiss on the hand, and personally I see no great crime in that. What I believe is important is how you feel now."

"Now?" Bernadette repeated, softly, seeking clarification not so much of the time, but of how, exactly, Sister Julienne meant her to interpret the world "feel".

Thankfully, though, it seemed that Sister Julienne knew exactly what she was asking anyway.

"Now that you seem, mercifully, to have left the worst of your illness behind you," she explained, "And now that you have read this letter from Dr. Turner. Only if you feel able to, I would consider it a great privilege and a great consolation, to me, if you would tell me what your thoughts are."

"I feel lucky to still be alive," Bernadette told her, "And I thank God for it."

"Of course, child," Sister Julienne nodded her understanding, "That is most natural. I thank God for it too. But," she asked, testing the ground, treading, she knew, on very dangerous territory, "What of your letter?"

There was a lengthy pause.

"Dr. Turner never meant me to read this, did he?" she asked, "Not if I lived?"

"No, I don't believe he did," Sister Julienne replied.

"Then I am sorry that he must be disappointed," she reflected, "But nevertheless I feel lucky. If anything," she added after a moment, "I would say that I felt more lucky, now. With his letter. Is that wrong of me, Sister?"

"No," Sister Julienne replied, "I cannot say that I think it is. After what you have been through I am not surprised that you feel heartened by the thought of human love. And you have God's love always, child."

"I know," Bernadette replied quietly, the slight crease of a frown forming on her brow, "I know."

"Then why do you look so troubled?" Sister Julienne asked her softly.

Bernadette's eyes closed, gently falling shut at first and then closing a little more tightly.

"Because I want him so much," she confessed in a whisper, her eyes still shut, "And I know that that _is_ wrong, Sister."

Once she opened them, she could tell from the sight of her face that Sister Julienne was at least a little shocked by that admission, though she endeavoured not to show it. The silence she took before speaking was longer than usual; it took her longer to find an answer.

"It may not be wrong," she reflected at length, "Not necessarily," then, very tentatively and unusually shyly for Sister Julienne, "_How_ do you want him, Sister?"

"I can't tell you," Bernadette replied, "I hardly know myself," she admitted helplessly, "I haven't the words."

Sister Julienne waited a moment.

"Try, Sister," she told her earnestly, "Please. Is it anything like what he wrote in his letter to you?"

Bernadette looked haltingly back down at the note in her hands, and nodded slowly.

"Yes," she replied, "I think it must be like that. I only know that I want him, Sister. Whenever I've felt frightened here, or lonely, it's him I've wanted to be here, him I've asked God to send to me, though I know it's impossible. When he diagnosed me, when he took me to the hospital, and to here, I was sitting next to him, but it felt like I could have been a thousand times nearer to him. I wanted to be. And, when I was lying under a huge x-ray machine, that was when I first felt very frightened, I realised what having this disease would mean and what it could do; I wanted him with me, to hold me. Even before I was ill... there were times... Sister, when he kissed my hand, I truly believe it was an innocent gesture on his part, but the way I felt-," she was not quite sure what to say for a few moments, "It frightened me," was all she could say, "What I felt then. It frightened me."

"Why should that make it wrong, though?" Sister Julienne asked her after a short pause, "Just because the feeling frightened you?"

When Bernadette did not reply, she pressed on softly.

"Sister, you have given me the great privilege of trusting me with what you have just told me," she told her kindly, "Will you allow me the further liberty of telling you what I think?"

"Of course, Sister," Bernadette replied.

"I think that you love Dr. Turner," Sister Julienne told her simply, "And that in itself cannot be wrong. It is what you do about it that you need to concern yourself with."

"But I have vowed to love God," Bernadette told her.

"Loving a man too does not mean that you love God less," Sister Julienne pointed out, "Indeed, I believe that if you do, and if it makes you happy it may lead you to love God more. But," she began, her own forehead furrowing now in a frown, "I believe that it does not make you happy at the moment, does it?"

Bernadette shook her head haltingly, looking down at her bedspread.

"And that is the greatest shame in all of this," Sister Julienne reflected, "That you should love and be unhappy in that love. That is wasteful, in the worst way, to the most crucial degree, and waste is not God's intention for us."

Again, Bernadette was quiet.

"You know what Dr. Turner's feelings are for you," Sister Julienne reminded her, inclining her head gently at the letter, "You have been told in the best sort of way, when he told you honestly, without needing to regard the consequences."

"Sister," Bernadette murmured at last, "What should I do?"

"That is one thing I cannot tell you," Sister Julienne told her regretfully, "One of the many things. You must choose for yourself. I can offer you guidance, but I cannot make your choice."

Sister Bernadette lapsed once again into a troubled, thoughtful silence.

"I would that I could," Sister Julienne continued, "I would that I had the power of God for you to go to Dr. Turner, to help him to be happy, but also never to leave us, to stay exactly as you have always been, wonderful person that you are. That he could be able to let you know he loves you, but that you could also stay at Nonnatus House, where you are also loved, where you remind me so very much of the young nun I once was, and make me think of the daughter I might have known, in a different life."

Bernadette was quite taken aback, staring at Sister Julienne quite openly now, her mouth parted a little in surprise. If she was not very much mistaken, something inside her chest had swollen, with the emotion she felt at hearing these words addresses to her, with her heart going out to Sister Julienne. The older nun gave her sad half-smile, sniffing a little and briefly brushing the edge of her nose with the tip of her finger.

"You see," she told her sadly, "I fear my advice would be of no use to you anyway, even if I could give it."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	4. Chapter 4

She heard a knock on her bedroom door. Sister Julienne was due to visit; and she had been tired so she had asked to receive her guest upstairs rather than downstairs in the sitting room. Lying on her side, facing away from the door, she called out; "Come in," softly.

She heard the door open, and gentle footsteps moving towards the chair at her bedside. Carefully, she rolled over onto her back and onto her other side, and nearly fell straight out of bed when she saw that her visitor was not Sister Julienne.

"Dr. Turner!" she exclaimed quietly, and tried to sit up as quickly as she could.

He for one looked distressed to have caused her such alarm.

"Don't do that," he told her gently, urging her to lie back down against her pillows, "It will only disorientate you if you sit up too quickly."

"Thank you," she told him once she had settled herself more comfortably, "I'm sorry I'm in bed like this. I would have got up if I'd known you were coming. I was expecting Sister Julienne."

"She's waiting downstairs," he informed her, "She-..."

"Not that I'm sorry to see you," she added hastily, cutting him off mid-sentence, thinking he might take affront at her reaction.

He was quiet for a moment, as if expecting more from her, and then finished what he had been trying to say before.

"She thought there were... certain things we might like to talk about. That we _ought _to talk about, she said. So she asked me if I'd drive her here, and I said I would be glad to."

"That was kind of you," she remarked, not looking up at him.

"I wanted to see you," he told her plainly.

When she was silent in reply, he asked her; "Do you know what she had in mind for us to talk about?"

Not that he did not have a fair idea himself; but part of him wanted to see what she would say, whether she would come straight out with it. And, quite to his surprise, she did.

"I read the letter you wrote to me," she told him, "I think it had something to do with that."

"I know you did," he replied, "Sister Julienne told me on the telephone before you'd woken up properly."

There was a long silence.

"Obviously, she couldn't tell me then what you thought of it," he continued, his voice strained with awkwardness and the blunt edge of hurt, "And she hasn't told me since. Sister, I didn't mean to offend or upset you by writing to you, truly I didn't."

"How could I have even thought that you did?" she asked him, "It was a wonderful letter. It was," she amended herself hastily, wondering if she had said too much, "Very kind."

He watched her closely but she would not look straight at him.

"I never wanted you to have to read it," he told her, "But I couldn't bear the thought of you... going with saying to you. Of you never knowing."

Then, she did look at him directly, though still timidly.

"Equally, though, Doctor," she told him, "You never meant me to read it and to survive."

"That is true," he replied, quite calmly, after a brief moment, "But just because I never intended it does not mean that I am grateful that that is what transpired, particularity when I think of... other eventualities," he finished rather weakly, "In fact, I quite prefer this way to the way I envisaged you would read the letter."

"That's not surprising," she told him with a small smile.

"No," he agreed, "Because this way you're still here."

The thought of it being any other way made him want to break down and weep; bury his head in his hands, her shoulder, kiss her hands, her beautiful face, and hold her to him. So, knowing that he could not, he returned her wan smile. Still, he felt his lips tremble a little.

Again, they were silent for a few moments. Her eyes broke away from him and looked out of the window, where bright light was pouring in, and falling on the foot of her bed. Her lips parted a little, as her concentration momentarily waned and then returned, as her focus fell back on him and, without meaning to, their eyes met more fully than they had done yet. Though for second the moment it created was a little confusing, it seemed to breathe a sense of conviction into him.

"Do you mind if I say something very blunt, Sister?" he asked her.

"That rather depends on what it is," she replied quietly, "Go on."

"The fact of the matter is that you did read the letter, and you did survive. What are we going to do about it?"

For a moment he thought he'd been too blunt, and she looked sharply away. After a moment, though, her eyes returned to his again, and she answered honestly, in little more than a whisper;

"I don't know."

It would have been foolish of him to expect her to know anything at this point.

"What do you want to do?" he asked her, and added, perceiving what her immediate response may be, "And, no, that isn't the same question."

"I still don't know," she repeated after a moment, "I'm sorry."

He shook his head gently.

"Please don't be sorry," he told her, "If there's anyone who ought to be sorry then it's me. I didn't really expect you to know what you want."

"Do you know what you want, Doctor?" she asked him, "Now that I'm still here?"

He nodded.

"Yes," he murmured, "But it would be unfair of me to ask it of you."

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. That was all she needed to know in order to be able to guess.

"I need time," she told him, very carefully, "I need time to think."

"Of course," he told her, "Of course you do. And you have it. It would be wrong of me to force your hand in any way."

Her eyes opened ad slowly met his. Exchanging another look, it seemed he was spurred on to boldness once more, and, his eyes never leaving hers, he told her;

"I know I shouldn't say this to you, Sister, and I must ask God to forgive me for it. But I've wanted you for so long, I can wait a little longer."

The words, those words, spoken in his voice- his beautiful voice, she thought- which such steady feeling and gentle resonance, seemed somehow to pierce her through the skin, deep through her veins, down to her very self, her soul. For a moment they took her breath away and her lips parted open a little in the sudden surge of raw emotion. She blinked, gazing back into his eyes once more. Her fingers were simultaneously cold on top of the bedspread and filled with the semblance of fire that flooded her blood in that moment.

"I've wanted you too," she whispered back, unable to look away, in the mad honesty that had taken over her mind, "More than I could hope to say. God forgive me."


End file.
